


Medley For Three

by Ark



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Also there are visual aids, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Asexual!Enjolras, Asexuality, Dinner, Established Relationship, M/M, Men in love, Modernity, Multi, Multimedia, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Sexytimes, partners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 03:35:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ark/pseuds/Ark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU. Enjolras is in a committed relationship with Combeferre and Grantaire. He prefers to watch, and they have been happy to oblige. But tonight, Enjolras knows that something is up the minute he gets home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Medley For Three

**Author's Note:**

> This all began with [an idea](http://et-in-arkadia.tumblr.com/post/47591819881/tanssintaivaankannenalla-i-was-eating-pea-soup) from [Julius](http://tanssintaivaankannenalla.tumblr.com), whose gorgeous art accompanies the story and who deserves kudos and worship. Thanks also to all my tumblr lovers for cheerleading.

Enjolras knows that something is up the minute he gets home. Grantaire is banging around in the kitchen with three pots on full boil, and Combeferre is setting the table, using the good dishes they normally reserve for company. The lights are dimmed and replaced by candles, and the three white napkins on the table are twisted into the shape of swans.

Enjolras unslings his bag and takes off his coat, but the frenetic blare of Kraftwerk on full volume drowns out his entry. Combeferre and Grantaire are working as frenetically, moving unconsciously to the music as they go about their tasks with single-minded dedication. 

He's certain it's nobody's birthday and is quite sure he hasn't forgotten an anniversary. Enjolras leans against the wall, watching for a while, hands in his pockets. Then he says, “What's the occasion?”

Something is definitely up, because both of them jump about a foot and a half. Grantaire makes a sound that sounds like 'eep.'

“Enjolras!” Combeferre hails, once he's landed back on earth. 

“You're home early!” Grantaire exclaims.

The band plays on.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Indeed,” he says. “What are we celebrating?” The air is thick with the smell of garlic, and the candles give the apartment a soft glow. Everything is spotlessly clean and as glowing. They've even vacuumed. When no answer is forthcoming, Enjolras feels a flash of worry: maybe the news is bad, and all of this a preemptive tonic. 

“We thought we'd have a proper dinner together,” Combeferre says, turning away to place a napkin swan on each plate. “So often we're hurried, or too lazy. No Chinese food cartons tonight. We're celebrating Grantaire's cooking.”

Grantaire flushes, rosy in the candlelight. “It was Combeferre's idea,” he says. “Anyway, sit down, monsieur, appetizers in ten minutes.” With this pronouncement he retreats behind the spice rack.

One eyebrow still up, Enjolras takes the seat Combeferre pulls back for him. 

“Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on?” Enjolras whisper-hisses.

“You're more cheerful after you've eaten,” answers Combeferre, heading to the liquor cabinet for the whiskey. He pours out three generous glasses, delivers Grantaire's into waiting hands, then slides into the chair across from Enjolras. Combeferre raises his glass and takes a measured sip. 

Enjolras can read him like the back of his hand, and knows when Combeferre is trying too hard to be nonchalant, but he resists a retort and makes himself wait. Whatever the reason behind this production, he can feel that it's important. He can be patient. He can make it until appetizers.

This proves to be a salad of tomato, basil and fresh mozzarella, crusty garlic bread and broccoli rabe. If they're going Italian it means Grantaire has probably made his favorite Spaghetti Carbonara and it's definitely serious. 

They dig in; the food is hot and delicious and distracts a few moments. Enjolras soaks up balsamic vinegar with a piece of bread. Then he looks at Grantaire next to him, pushing a tomato around on his plate, at Combeferre across the table, slicing a round of cheese into sixteenths.

“Okay,” says Enjolras.

Combeferre clears his throat. “You see--”

“It's just that--” Grantaire starts.

“We--”

Enjolras doesn't know which of them to look at until it bursts forth from Grantaire: 

“We didn't mean to,” says Grantaire. His eyes are widening circles, and his lip is bitten. “Honestly we didn't. It just sort of happened, and at first we were like, fine, but then, we started talking about it, and we started thinking maybe we shouldn't have? And we wanted to tell you, because we--”

“Grantaire,” says Enjolras. “Take a deep breath. And a drink.”

Grantaire gives him a painfully grateful look and complies. Enjolras says, “Combeferre?”

“We had sex without you,” says Combeferre, matter-of-fact, though he flicks a sideways glance at Grantaire before turning back to Enjolras. “It was...good. It was not planned, nor anticipated. But as Grantaire relayed, we came to regret it thereafter. Not the act--”

Grantaire is nodding along now. “Not that we did it,” he agrees. “Just that you didn't know.”

Enjolras sits back in his chair. He doesn't want to frown, so he doesn't. “Did you think I would object?”

“We did not,” says Combeferre. 

“That made us feel even more guilty,” explains Grantaire.

“How did it happen?” Enjolras asks. He feels only curiosity, no anger or hurt; the idea of the two of them sharing themselves without him is new, but he examines it, and finds it to be welcome. The unorthodox arrangement had begun because of Enjolras, because of the way both felt about Enjolras, but if they were coming to a greater comfort with each other, he should be thrilled. Cautiously, he is. He smiles, trying to dissipate the tension. “Did you tape it at least?”

Both let out a relieved breath as one. Grantaire says, “So it was like, an accident? I overslept and was in a hurry and when I went to go take a shower Combeferre was already in there and he said he'd get out so I could get in but I said why don't we just share so that we could both get ready, wouldn't that make more sense, and so we did and well, you know, showers--” he waves a hand descriptively.

[ ](http://s1344.photobucket.com/user/etinarkadia/media/showerecr_zpsf637a024.jpg.html)

“I see.” Enjolras wishes that he had. He can imagine it: Grantaire and Combeferre under the stream of water, in the steam, their wet bodies wearing only translucent soap-bubbles, the damp slicking down their hair. How first they must have edged around for space, until something had sparked, had driven them together even without Enjolras present. He remembers how they had been so hesitant with each other at first, when they had all begun. “I'm glad,” he says.

Combeferre's expression is appreciative. “You are a paragon, Enjolras.”

“And neither of you did anything wrong. I should be sorry I never addressed the prospect before.” Enjolras reaches for more garlic bread and dishes out another serving of salad, trying to show his partners that he is quite at peace. “I wish you would do so more often,” he says, thinking about it. “You both have needs that I cannot account for, and desires that you have kept to yourselves, perhaps, for the sake of me.” 

Grantaire's voice is full of emotion, and his brow crinkles adorably. “Fuck,” he says, with something suspiciously like a sniffle. “I fucking love you, man. But I have to rescue the sauce from burning.” He moves from his chair, bends to catch and kiss the palm of Enjolras' hand, then speeds behind the kitchen counter.

Enjolras shakes his head, smiling fondly after Grantaire, then turning the bemused glance on Combeferre.

Combeferre is smiling, too. “I also fucking love you, man,” he says, with pitch-perfect Grantaire-ian inflection. 

“You know you could've just told me what happened,” says Enjolras. “Hell, you could've texted it. I didn't need this.” He spreads a hand to encompass the overflowing table, the now-mangled napkin swans, the candlelight.

“I know,” says Combeferre. “But it was at least half the truth before. We wanted to do this for you -- for us -- we're always all in such a hurry. It's so rare that we get to sit down, like --”

There's a pause while Combeferre seems to search for the right word, and Enjolras watches him rack his brilliant brain; but Grantaire comes back balancing three laden plates of pasta in his arms, and it's Grantaire, without filter, who finds the right phrase.

“Like a family,” says Grantaire, softly, serving out the spaghetti. 

Combeferre nods.

Warmth blooms in Enjolras. He feels himself flush with them, and thinks his cheeks must be red with pleasure. He shares a look with each in turn, letting them see the depth of his agreement and his love, then forks a giant bite of his favorite dish, and starts to eat with gusto. 

After that it's a lively meal, with Grantaire passionately haranguing on the latest injustice from the 24-hour news cycle, interspersed with Combeferre's thoughtful contributions and Enjolras' astute observations, and they pass an indulgent hour and Combeferre pours a little more whiskey (more for Grantaire) and Grantaire makes coffee and he has made creamy tiramisu for dessert. 

Enjolras tilts back in his chair, feeling slow and full with satisfaction. He sets down his fork. “My compliments to the chef and the maitre d'.” 

They grin at him, the men he loves. Combeferre, sitting tall and straight-backed, his sandy hair given a little wave with mousse for the special occasion, his eyes bright and clear behind horn rimmed glasses, his neat blue sweater and tan slacks and shined shoes and air of utter competence; he looks at Grantaire, who sits slouching a little toward Enjolras, three days of stubble leaving a roguish shadow on his jaw, in a faded Earth Day t-shirt and torn jeans, and there is white paint in the riot of his black hair and yellow paint on his elbow and Grantaire looks back at Enjolras with his sad, wonderful big eyes that always seem surprised to see him, even after so much time. 

  
[ ](http://s1344.photobucket.com/user/etinarkadia/media/tableecr_zpsed2f498c.jpg.html)   


“I'm happy about what happened, and I'd encourage the continuation when I'm not here,” Enjolras says. He gets up the earliest, often before the sun is up; why should Combeferre and Grantaire not seek comfort in each other's arms, when they already shared a bed, and everything else? It's more surprising, thinks Enjolras, that is has taken so long. But he can see that they're still uneasy. “Maybe, to put your minds at rest, you should show me what transpired, and then we will say nothing more about it.”

Grantaire and Combeferre exchange a look. Grantaire turns a pretty pink, and Combeferre readjusts his glasses. “That's -- that's a viable option,” he allows.

“If you want to,” says Grantaire, checking. It's meant for both of them.

Enjolras nods. “I want to.” Too often, he thinks, it is his own whims his partners focus on indulging, showing him his favorite things, the things they think he wants to see, their beautiful bodies moving together, but overly choreographed, like a dance. Curiosity has tipped over into an intense desire to know how they had behaved without the expectation of his gaze. He tells them a little of that, and they faces return gratitude, and from Grantaire, adoration, and from Combeferre, exultation. 

They abandon the dinner mess for the morning and go into the bedroom. It's as spotless in here as the rest of the apartment and Enjolras exclaims over that as he turns on all the lights. It's good to see all of their mixed books put neatly away in the high bookshelves and Grantaire has cleaned up the pastels that are usually scattered like a broken rainbow on the desk and Combeferre has raked his lab notes and notebooks into towering haystacks and there are no loose clothes on the carpet whatsoever. 

The detritus of three mingled lives is often hard to contain, and sometimes they struggle for a balance, but tonight, everything fits into its place. In the bedroom, Enjolras turns around to embrace them, and they drop their heads of light and dark, each to a shoulder, both breathing at his neck, and they all hold on like that, a while.

  
[](http://s1344.photobucket.com/user/etinarkadia/media/ercembrace_zps224f01ea.png.html)   


Then Enjolras moves to sit in the leather arm chair positioned close to the bed, and he leaves Combeferre and Grantaire together in the center of the room.

They gaze at each other uncertainly. Grantaire's expression is apologetic. “It, uh -- it would help if we were in the shower. It's kinda hard to--”

“I'll use my imagination,” says Enjolras. “But if you want to go and get wet first, by all means.”

“Ha, ha,” says Grantaire, far from laughter. “Okay, so, I guess we should--”

Combeferre is already taking off his clothes, looking unconcerned about it. His glasses come off last. He folds each article neatly, then turns, letting Enjolras admire the graceful lines of his tall, proud form as he reaches for the hem of Grantaire's t-shirt. This is entirely new; Combeferre has never undressed him before, and all three experience the act of it with shared significance. By the time Grantaire is naked he is also hard, and his hand curves on Combeferre's bare upper arm to keep himself steady.

“How did it start?” Enjolras asks. He wonders that such loveliness is his, such love.

“Like this,” says Grantaire. Now he sounds more decisive, and at Combeferre's faint nod, Grantaire steps in, reaching to frame Combeferre's face with his hands, then pulls him down into a kiss that starts hesitantly and deepens almost at once, bodies and mouths melting together and hands like hungry wanderers. It is equal parts tender and wanton, and it is one of the strangest, most spectacular things Enjolras has ever observed, Grantaire and Combeferre kissing like they desperately want to, not because they thought it would please Enjolras to see.

They come away panting. Both look to Enjolras to check his reaction, and smile at it, and they share a sideways smile. 

“That went on for some time,” narrates Combeferre. “We kissed for a long time. We normally do not, unless you ask it of us. This was different. We were...excited.”

“There was, like, this thrill,” says Grantaire. “We totally acknowledged it. Like, we knew you'd be OK with it but it still felt forbidden since you didn't know.”

“We played up on that a bit,” Combeferre says, scrupulously honest in his recount. “We talked about what would happen if you were to walk in and find us like that. Your surprise. Your happiness. We considered the possibility of anger.”

“Then we pretended like we weren't supposed to,” continues Grantaire, also too honest, “and we had to be quick or we'd be discovered.”

“I really wish you'd thought to tape it,” says Enjolras. “Audio at least.”

“But we weren't quick,” says Combeferre, grinning approval at Enjolras. “Then, we, ah--”

“Then I gave a pretty spectacular blow-job, I have to say, considering the space constraints and hot-water complications,” says Grantaire, frank about it and also more than a little proud.

Combeferre straightens his shoulders, looking unabashed. “Pretty spectacular,” he concurs. 

“Show,” suggests Enjolras. “Don't tell.”

Grantaire blinks. But just as quickly he's on his knees on the carpet, head ducked and swallowing Combeferre down, with none of the restraint or showmanship he usually puts into the motion when Enjolras is watching them. Combeferre reacts the way he must have done in the shower, startling only a little before a delicious shiver rocks him back on his heels, and his fingers slip down immediately to find purchase in Grantaire's hair. His pale fingers thread deep into the dark locks and Grantaire is taking him so, so deep.

“Audio,” reminds Enjolras.

“Grantaire--” Combeferre gets it out around gasps. “Grantaire, we shouldn't--”

Grantaire pulls his mouth away, put not his tongue, lavishing the head of Combeferre's cock. “God,” he says, “God, I know. But you taste so fucking _good--_ ” and Combeferre's cock is hitting the back of his throat again and again and Combeferre's fingers are twisting now in his hair to keep him in place and then there's a sound from Combeferre that Enjolras has never heard before and he can see the moment when Combeferre gives up caution and gives himself over to it. His posture realigns, and he throws back his head and starts to fuck Grantaire's mouth and Enjolras has never, ever seen this before but he thinks that he could watch it without surcease.

“Holy shit,” says Enjolras, appreciative. “You've been holding back on me.”

He means it to be praise, but Combeferre, even in the midst of having his cock enthusiastically sucked, is analytical. “Perhaps we have been, somewhat,” Combeferre says, answering for the both of them, since Grantaire can't answer. “You know that when we are with you, you are foremost in our minds. We...ah, yes, Grantaire, fuck -- we enjoyed the exploration of something new. This was different, for us.” Grantaire, with a bob of his head, seems to agree. “And yet you were never far away,” Combeferre concludes, very close. “You were still there with us.”

Grantaire's speed increases, and Combeferre's release comes with a melodious moan that goes up and down Enjolras' spine. After a long moment he lets go of Grantaire, after stroking thankful fingers through his hair, and he offers a hand that lifts Grantaire to his feet. Grantaire is now the one who takes up the speech, with Combeferre temporarily speechless at his side, trying to stand straight while his body wants to slump, boneless. 

Grantaire gives him a shoulder to lean on, a hip. Then he says to Enjolras, “That's the thing. When we talked about it later, we were on the same page. We had a good time, we were not sorry, but we _missed_ you. We agreed it wasn't anything like being with you, like having you here with us. This is what we prefer.”

“It was a necessary experiment,” Combeferre adds, finding his voice. “But you are still the solution, Enjolras.” 

He doesn't need to say anything to that, just cants his head, like he's bowing to them. They watch each other with understanding, in total sympathy. He decides to speak, though he doesn't need to. He loves each of them more than his own life, he tells them, loves them equally and for different reasons. And he tells them how he loves to see them together, how there will never be enough time to watch them because he would do so all the time, if he could. Grantaire and Combeferre stand as one, arms slung around shoulders, to hear him say so. 

At the end of it, Enjolras remains curious. “Did it end there?” he asks, thinking that it had not. Both of them remain primed and ready, shifting in place beneath his scrutiny.

“The, uh, shower did, yes,” Grantaire supplies. “But then we--”

“We made love, in the bathroom,” says Combeferre. He raises his gaze to meet Enjolras', and raises his expressive eyebrows. “We fucked.” His arm is slung around Grantaire, hand resting on Grantaire's hip; his thumb smooths small circles there. 

“We did,” agrees Grantaire. 

“On the tiles, and on a towel on the floor,” Combeferre recalls calmly, setting the scene.

“How?” Enjolras wants to know. His mind provides varied pictures at the suggestion, all fantastic in hue and tone. 

“Spoiler alert,” says Grantaire, and Combeferre laughs with Enjolras. 

Then Combeferre shakes his head. “I think we should tell him,” he says to Grantaire. “Don't you think?” He dips to gently mouth at Grantaire's shoulder, his neck, and Grantaire leans in with a happy sigh.

Combeferre says, “I asked Grantaire to fuck me, and he was good enough to do so.” Enjolras gets the distinct impression that Combeferre is smiling as he pauses to make a red mark on the canvas of Grantaire's skin. “He was very good.” 

Enjolras works his jaw, trying to decide how to best convey the thrill this sparks in him. It is not the usual dynamic -- it is different from what has been shared before. No longer a dance; it is a song harmonizing between them. “Is that something you've been wanting?” He feels unobservant, then, the consummate observer. 

Combeferre shrugs, the motion echoed in Grantaire beside him. “Perhaps,” he says. “Anyway, it was the unknown.”

“You were lovely,” volunteers Grantaire, then turns to Enjolras to confirm it. “Combeferre is too generous.”

“And Grantaire, too kind,” says Combeferre. “He was gentle with me.”

“I could do no less, for you,” says Grantaire. “I love you too much, man.”

“Please,” says Enjolras. It's a rare plea from him.

But they're already kissing before it's past his lips, their lips coming together, again and again, and Grantaire tilts into Combeferre and Combeferre has his arms wrapped around Grantaire, and their doubled beauty makes Enjolras want to celebrate and cry out and take pictures. He wants to preserve them like this, in amber or oil-paints, and he tries to burn the image into his brain, the evidence that love can be multiplied.

They seek accuracy in their reenactment. Combeferre pulls away from Grantaire long enough to fetch a white towel, spilling it like cream across the red carpet, and he lies down on the floor, forgoing the big bed. Grantaire joins him after a trip to the bedside dresser. Combeferre puts his knees up and Grantaire kneels between them, bending to press a kiss to the inside of Combeferre's thigh. 

“What did you say to Combeferre, Grantaire?” Enjolras wants to know. “You are rarely silent.”

“I was quiet, at first,” answers Grantaire, “concentrated, for once,” though he is equally concentrated now, as Combeferre unlocks underneath his clever fingers. “But you are right. Then I had a great deal to say. I told him how good he felt, and how good he was, how he's the smartest man I know, and one of the best, and how I admire him and love him, and how happy I am that he's with us, because he makes us both better, doesn't he, and if it were just you and me, Enjolras, I'd fuck it up, I'm sure I'd find some way to, but because Combeferre's with us I know we're doing the right thing, because he always does the right thing. And also, that he's really fucking hot. I told him how I couldn't wait to be inside of him.”

Enjolras follows Grantaire's train of thought down the rabbit hole and back, used to his speeches, and he emerges warmed to the bone. The sight of them helps coalesce the heat. Combeferre hums a strained affirmation, hips rising up from the towel to meet Grantaire, all his body is accommodating, mouth open but lacking words, but Grantaire has enough for them all. 

“I asked him,” says Grantaire, “how he wanted me. And he told me to choose, so I did.” He climbs up and over, hooking Combeferre's long legs over his shoulders, slipping between his thighs. 

He puts his hands to either side of Combeferre's face looking up at him, finds balance, then lifts one hand to rest against Combeferre's cheek. He murmurs something low that Enjolras can't hear and Combeferre nods, chin dipping to chest so he can watch, too, watch how then Grantaire takes his cock in his hand so that they're aligned, and pushes carefully in. 

Enjolras breathes with them through it, and then they're kissing, open mouths and eyes open, and Grantaire with an elegant roll of his hips thrusts deep, and Combeferre breaks the kiss as his head goes back. His hair is dark with sweat and sweat trickles down the line of his throat, and he is bent in half. “Ah,” he breathes. “Grantaire--”

“I have you.” To prove it, Grantaire holds still a moment, letting their bodies adjust, before starting to set a rhythm that rocks them together. It starts slow and thorough, but soon builds in pitch and depth, and they're making sounds that are new to Enjolras' ears. All of it is new to him, but achingly beautiful, and the sight of them irresistible. In his wildest dreams he had not imagined they would be like this.

“You are so, so good,” Grantaire is saying.

“Combeferre,” says Enjolras, “what did you say to Grantaire?”

“Many -- many things,” Combeferre manages. He turns to look at Enjolras with glazed eyes, full up with Grantaire; his limbs are lithe and spry and he loves like a man who has studied loving. “I told him how excellent he felt. How I desired him. How I trusted him.” Combeferre puts a hand up, eyes still on Enjolras, and palms down Grantaire's sweat-slick torso. He leaves the hand cupped over Grantaire's ass. Squeezes. “How deep he was. How deep.” They moan as one, and Enjolras' throat is dry, watching. Combeferre does not look away. “I told him not to be so gentle and to fuck me.”

But Grantaire halts, shuddering, and looks at Enjolras, too. Enjolras stares at them, at how they are joined and ecstatic, and feels the same. He nods. “I wish you would, Grantaire.”

With a bitten-off noise he drowns in Combeferre's neck, Grantaire thrusts without restraint. The grace of his body unravels to a primal pace, savage and wild, carrying them and the white towel across the carpet. The slap of skin on skin should be obscene, but Enjolras finds that his heartbeat quickens in perfect sympathy. Like this, unbridled, raw, they are all the more exquisite, all posturing and performance gone, stripped down to their essence. 

Before, when they had fucked for Enjolras, it had been a production, Enjolras knows now. It had been careful and languid, well-lit, and they stretched and bent their bodies into pretty positions they thought he would like. 

This is something else: this is Combeferre, receiving all that Grantaire can give him without hesitation, the flex of muscles along Combeferre's strong thighs and his feet over Grantaire's shoulders, Combeferre still turning, sometimes, to check on Enjolras, and his eyes that say I love you, though his mouth cannot. 

This is Grantaire, doing all that Combeferre has asked and more, Grantaire's thumb tracing Combeferre's cheekbone before he wraps his hand around Combeferre's cock caught straining between them; Grantaire's hips that snap in and out, again and again, and when Combeferre grips his hair to hold on Grantaire bites his own lip almost hard enough to draw blood. It shows white under his white teeth.

“Grantaire,” says Enjolras. “Don't be quiet on my account. Tell me what happened. I want to know quite badly.”

Grantaire's bright eyes are lidded with lust, eyelashes fluttering against his cheek. “We--” 

Combeferre keeps one hand caught in dark curls but slips the other down to join Grantaire's on his cock, and they shudder about it and then start to jerk Combeferre off together, a mesmerizing duet of a hand job. 

“We pretended like maybe you came into the bathroom, and found us like that,” Grantaire pants.

“Did I,” says Enjolras, thrilled and amused. “So what did _I_ say?”

“You -- oh, Combeferre, that's -- you --”

“You told us we were in trouble,” finishes Combeferre, tremblingly close to his finish. Muscles ripple along his long body as he tightens around Grantaire. “But that -- that we would be forgiven, if we could come for you, together.”

“Sounds like me,” says Enjolras. A smile teases the corner of his mouth. He puts his elbows into the leather armrests and leans forward. “Did you obey my shade?”

“We -- _Grantaire--_ ” Combeferre never completes the scene, for Grantaire's drive has grown relentless, and he propels them to an explosive end -- Combeferre is the first, Enjolras thinks, but Grantaire is right behind him, over him, in him, and while Enjolras watches they become, for a moment, seamless and whole. Grantaire is murmuring Combeferre's name, riding the last throws of it, and Combeferre reaches up with slick shaking fingers and touches the stubble of Grantaire's jawline. Eventually Grantaire stops speaking. He turns a kiss into Combeferre's palm. 

“Thank you,” says Enjolras, when all is still.

They take a while in pulling apart, lazy about it. They clean up with the towel and lounge on it, shiny with sweat and heavy with satisfaction.

Grantaire is the first to find his voice. “Any time,” he says. “Seriously.”

“We'll keep it in mind,” says Combeferre, less prone to instant promises. Enjolras understands that he's been allowed to witness something special, something unprepared for but lurking under their skin. Whether they'll want to again is subject to circumstance. Still, he won't deny that the sights and truths he was shown exhilarated him, and he knows, in the future, that he'll urge them to be more natural with one another. After today, it's difficult to imagine going back to their old affectations. 

Enjolras goes to his partners, since they are weighed down like lead, and gives them a hand up. Their hands are solid and sometimes sticky and warm in his grasp. 

They head to the couch in the corner, exactly big enough for three, and sit draped and tangled together with Enjolras held between Combeferre and Grantaire. They breathe sated against him. Combeferre is mapping the blue veins of Enjolras' wrist with a fingertip, and Grantaire has his fingers twisted in the short curls at the nape of Enjolras' neck.

Enjolras tells them how he loves them, and how lovely they were to see. He speaks for a long time, while they fit in at complicated angles but fit. Grantaire falls asleep a space on his shoulder. Combeferre bears both of them when Enjolras leans back and Grantaire tilts forward. They rest while Enjolras talks on, describing what it was like to watch them be at liberty.

Grantaire rouses. “Mmm,” he says. “We're hot stuff, we know. But it's like we said earlier. There wasn't a part of that when you weren't with us, and this time, with you watching--” his shiver goes through all three of them.

Combeferre nods in agreement. He's caught Grantaire's goosebumps. “It was even better.”

“Totally,” says Grantaire.

“Let's relax,” says Enjolras, though he tightens his arms around them. “And then, I think we're all in pretty dire need of a shower.”


End file.
